The Siege at Kvatch
by Lady Reva
Summary: A somewhat different point of view of the sacking of Kvatch.


**The Siege at Kvatch**

Skuros took a deep breath of the fresh air which rushed to meet him. It sickened him. Two of the churls under his command nearly doubled over as they inhaled this pure freshness of Nirn. As kynmarcher his tolerance for physical discomfort was noticeably higher, even if he did understand the temporary weakness of those two underlings. Not that it would help them when it came time to promotions. Such weakness could not be rewarded, and would not be rewarded.

A blood red sun was setting behind him, painting the sheer cliff ahead of him in the as of yet unspilled blood of the city sitting enthroned high above his head. By dawn, the blood would not be an illusion and the sun would find its rival in the smoldering remains of that very city.

Stepping over the remains of the small gate to Oblivion which had brought them here, Skuros led the dremora under his command on the long climb upwards. Unlike those troops even now marshaling in the staging grounds outside their Lord's main fortress, they wore almost no armor and only the lightest weapons available. They would not be charging in towards a defended main gate, but slip unnoticed through a badly watched secondary gate.

The strain of climbing in this fresh world showed when, during the deepest part of the cold night, they reached the top of the sharp cliff protecting the soft side of the city. They had only lost three scamps in the climb, and one churl would be good for nothing, but he had expected no less. He had reached the rank of kynmarcher not only through his strength and bravery in combat, but also because of his keen mind. As such he accepted those losses as part of the numbers. They would not be missed.

The mortal servants of Lord Dagon claimed that the last of the dragon blood resided in the place of worship of this place. Why they had not simply killed him as with the weak, reigning fool upon the mortals' throne, Skuros did not know. While it was not his place to question, he wondered why Mehrunes Dagon would mobilize his entire army to destroy one weak mortal. Perhaps as a show of power? He didn't question further as he slipped into the city ahead of his men. With no armor to encumber them, they passed almost silently through the streets.

Just as they reached a small plaza adjacent to the place of worship, alarms began to sound throughout the otherwise still streets. Then the earth trembled as if in fright and the earsplitting roar of the siege engine filled the street with a barrier of noise which seemed to thicken the air until it became almost impassable.

Skuros and his men were already in position when the first of the panicked mortals ran from their houses towards this place of worship. Did they hope to find sanctuary within? If so, then they were fools. No building upon this world could stop the fury of Mehrunes Dagon.

"To the Chapel!" Skuros' head snapped over towards the sound of one mortal not cowering in fear. His vision flashed as the hint of the divines skirted over the man's skin, and at once he knew. He knew that _this_ was his prey. It was this mortal, with eyes blue as Nirn's skies and a slithering silver aura. This mortal's fall would spell the end of the Aedra's reign over Nirn.

"a-cweccan*!" Those under his command surged forward at the rough glottal tone of Skuros' voice. The dozen scamps which survived the climbed immediately surged towards the prey, while the churls chose to go after the terrified mortals running senselessly towards the Chapel. The kynmarcher focused on his prey, choosing to remain in the deeper shadows he had hidden in before the beginning of the attack.

The crackle of an ice spell vibrated amongst the stones of the court, barely heard underneath the still screaming siege engine. Skuros glanced around to find the source, finally laying his eyes upon the prey, and the three dead scamps laying half way across the plaza from where the mortal stood. The remaining scamps shied back as their leaders lay between them and their target. As one, they decided to seek easier prey. Cowards as they were. A small smile stretched his lips as he considered the prey. It would be a far better challenge than he'd thought. He would have been disappointed had a swarm of scamps taken him down.

Almost leisurely, Skuros stepped out of the shadow of the statue where he had chosen to watch. Ignoring the cries of his churls, he paced to face the prey, blue eyes watching him with a concentration he had not expected to find in a mortal. Regardless of the screams and terror surrounding him, he seemed to understand that he, Skuros, was the real threat. But he was no warrior. No warrior would be foolish enough to lose sight of the other threats around him.

Just as quickly as the thought materialized in Skuros' mind, it vanished. A churl attempting to blindside the prey suddenly froze as the ice spell hit it, and a dark skinned woman's shove sent it crashing to the ground, shattering into a thousand glittering slivers of ice. He would not underestimate his prey. It was a worthy opponent.

"You will die mortal." The rasp of Skuros' voice as he used the unfamiliar words of the mortal's language seemed to reach the prey, because the mortal simply shrugged, and readied another spell. In the distance, the sounds of battle came ever closer, but still, Skuros had time enough to reap the glory for himself.

Mindful of the spells crackling at the tips of the mage's fingers, he inched closer. Between anticipating the next spell's trajectory and ducking at the right time – made easier by his lack of armor – Skuros managed to cross a third of the open space between himself and the mage. Only one ice bolt came close enough to singe him, leaving his left arm feeling oddly numb.

The main battle seemed only a scamp's throw away, and inching closer. It was time to act if the glory was to be his. Startled he realized that he was the only one of his detachment left standing. It seemed that perhaps Churls were not so well suited to such a task, unused to fighting without their heavy armor covering them like a carapace.

"_Cwylan"_ With the shout, Skuros rushed forward, ever mindful of potential spells, but feeling his time for glory slip from his fingers. He expected the mage to throw everything he had at him. What he did not expect is to have the man simply wait. Just as he reached his prey, and swung his blade to cut through the mortal's weak flesh, he ducked underneath the swinging arm of the blade, and reached up, the mortal's warm hand sliding across the exposed flank. A flickering of cold began to spread through him at the touch. As the iciness spread through him, he lost more and more control. Slowly, almost sickeningly so, the ground began to rise up to meet his downward fall.

The mage had not prepared another ice spell. He had not waited to throw everything into one last ditch effort to hit him. Instead, the mortal had paralyzed him. He could no longer move.

"Quickly." Quickly what? Skuros couldn't seem to move his head enough to look back. The bite of a blade into his neck and the sight of the blood slick pavement were his last sensations before tumbling into the waters of Oblivion. Merhunes Dagon's ire surrounded him like an impenetrable shell, and in those last moments of consciousness, he knew that he would never again be allowed to walk the Deadlands.

***M***

"Brother Martin!" Tierra's voice drew him from his stupor as he watched the Dremora's last feeble struggles for life. "We must get to safety."

"Safety? In this city?" They might have won the battle for this small plaza, but he doubted the battle for the city could be won.

"We must at least try." Her voice entreated him, and pleaded with the very core of his being, that part of him that had always thirsted to help people. It was a part he had tended to ignore during his tenure as a Sanguinite. It didn't matter now. With a brief nod and followed her towards the still open Chapel door.

More dremora came pouring into the plaza as they slipped through, and forced the heavy door shut, barricading it from within with anything they could get their hands on.

It would be a very long night for the hundred odd survivors out of a city of thousands.

**Author's Notes: **I know that in the game, you can count the survivors with both hands. But considering that this is supposed to be a thriving city, I would put the population closer to a few thousand, instead of the very few the game engine has space for. So I would assume that more than a dozen would make it to the safety of the Chapel.

I hope you enjoyed my somewhat different point of view of the siege of Kvatch. I know I enjoyed writing it. Please leave me a review. I always appreciate comments about how to improve my writing, about what I'm doing right, and what I may be doing wrong. Or to simply let me know that someone is reading this.

Cheers,

Lady Reva

**About Language**: The spoken language I use for the dremora is actually anglo-saxon. I didn't want them to speak plain English, and I wasn't sure just what language to make them speak otherwise. I figured Anglo-saxon would be distinct enough to make a difference. All translations are from the online Anglo-Saxon Dictionary at www(dot)bosworthtoller(dot)com

a-cweccan **;** _p._ -cwehte; _pp._ -cweht _To move quickly, to shake, vibrate_

a-cwylan: _to die_


End file.
